


Vocal

by rufeepeach



Series: Boltholes and Safe Spaces [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rabbits 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:24:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose is at preschool for her first day and Belle is freaking out. Gold has to distract her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vocal

Rose is at preschool.   
  
For the first time ever.   
  
And Belle is freaking out. She doesn’t want to be, of course not, she has a whole day to herself for the first time in what feels like an eternity, and she’s relieved.   
  
Except Rose is off playing with other little children, somewhere far away from her, and what if she falls and skins her knee? What if she breaks something? What if someone decides to grab her in the playground when no one’s looking, and Belle gets a phone call saying that her baby is missing and-   
  
That is ridiculous.   
  
Rose is  _ fine _ . Mary Margaret Blanchard - who doesn’t even  teach preschool - has personally sworn to keep an eye on her. And Astrid will be at the gates at two-thirty sharp to collect her, because for some reason she doesn’t trust Belle not to run into the school early and kidnap her own baby.   
  
So Belle has no reason not to catch up on some TV - she has three seasons of Doctor Who on DVD to watch, and the daleks had scared Rose last time - or read, or clean the whole house again. She has no excuse to be sat on the couch, staring at the clock on the wall, holding a pair of Rose’s baby shoes in her hands - _so small, she had been so very, very small, and fragile and precious, and now she’s off in the world without her mama_ \- and trying not to cry.   
  
At 10:30, she calls the school.   
  
At 10:35, the school tells her to calm down, that the receptionist has just checked and yes, Rose is fine, and to please not call again unless it was an emergency.   
  
At 1:15, Belle calls Mary Margaret’s cell.   
  
And is politely told that she is going through separation anxiety, that it is perfectly normal and nothing to worry about. Mary Margaret refuses to leave her lesson to check on Rose, and Belle feels a little ashamed of herself when she hangs up rather rudely on her friend.   
  
There is a sound at the door half an hour later, and she jumps out of her skin. Then there is a key turning in the lock, and her husband is smiling at her in greeting.   
  
His smile turns a little worried when he sees the tear tracks on her face, and the baby shoes in her hands.   
  
“What’re you doing here?” she asks, voice trembling, and  _ bless him _ , he’s across the room in seconds, on the sofa beside her with his arms wrapped firmly around her shaking body and hand stroking her hair as she weeps against his shoulder.   
  
“What’re you doing home?” she sniffles against his shoulder, “The shop should be open.”   
  
“Business is slow anyway, and you seem about five minutes from abducting your own daughter. I’m of more use here.”   
  
“She’s too young!” she pleads, because her husband can do  _ anything _ , including bring babies home, and Rose was only born yesterday, right? It feels like only yesterday, at any rate.   
  
“She’s four years old, Belle.” he reminds, gently, “And she’ll be home in three quarters of an hour.”   
  
She sniffs, and suddenly realises that she must look a complete mess. She’s been married for over two and a half years, and Gold has seen her bruised and crying and sick with the flu, but she still feels a little self-conscious.   
  
“I’m sorry. I know, you’re right...” she takes a deep breath, “I just miss her, that’s all.”   
  
“You and every other parent of a kid her age, including myself.” He cracks a smile, “Do you know how hard it was not to just lurk around the school all day to see if I could catch a glimpse? I’m sure someone in there is behind on their rent...”   
  
Her eyes brighten, “Well, you have to go find out then, don’t you?”   
  
“No.” he says, firmly, “If we go and spy on her now, then you’ll never be able to let go. We’re staying right here.”   
  
“Here...” she frowns, but there’s an idea forming in her mind, “Forty-five minutes alone on the sofa?”   
  
“Well, I meant the house...” he looks down at his wife, sees the telltale smirk forming on her lips, and his voice turns a little lower, his smile matching hers, “But yes, to be on the safe side. The sofa might be best.”   
  
“Hmmm,” she hums, because she needs to take her mind off Rose, and what better way than by delighting in her husband instead? She wraps her arms around his neck, moves so she’s sat on his lap, so they’re pressed against each other as close as they can be, “I like this plan.”   
  
He’s got that smile on his face again, that one like he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this and doesn’t intend to ask anytime soon.    
  
It’s been four years since she first moved in, scared and cold and alone.   
  
Three and a half years since they became friends, and lovers, and engaged in fairly short order.   
  
Two and a half since they married, and her father smiled and Rose was a flower girl, holding tight to Astrid’s hand and trying so hard not to stumble down the aisle on her awkward little feet.    
  
And yet he still sits beneath her, and holds her close in deceptively strong arms, and looks at her like she’s a fallen star, like she’s wonderful and beautiful and utterly  _ impossible _ .   
  
She’ll never grow tired of that look.   
  
She leans down to kiss him, slow and deep and thorough, hands fanned out along the side of his face. His tongue laps at hers with long, languid strokes, teasing at her lips and tripping over the roof of her mouth in the way he knows will make her bones melt and her muscles quiver.   
  
His hands move down her back, hold her hips in place, hold her flush against him so there is no room for daylight or anything else, just Rum and Belle and their breath caught between them.   
  
They stay like that for a long time, just kissing, her hands in his hair and his on her waist. And her mind is shutdown, unable to think of anything but the pressure of his mouth on hers, the little curlicues his fingers trace in her skin of her waist where her shirt has ridden up. There are shivers and tingles, warm and familiar things, racing over her skin, healing and numbing all pain and leaving only the soft and the warm, the pleasure building in her belly and the love in her heart. How glad she is that he is  here , with her, to take the stupid little separation pains away.   
  
Her shirt finally rides up high enough that it just makes sense to break away from her exploration of his neck and allow him to pull it over her head.   
  
He stares at her a moment, clad only in her black skirt and blue lacy bra, and there’s a familiar darkness in his eyes, the kind that never fails to send a shiver down her spine and a flush to her cheeks. He leans forward to nibble on her collarbone, brings one hand up to palm her breast through the fabric, his thumb nail scraping against her nipple, forcing a gasp from her lips.   
  
She wriggles and writhes in his lap, her thighs on either side of his, so they’re lined up and she can feel him pressing up against her, feel how she affects him as much as he still affects her.   
  
He groans when she brushes her centre against him, eyes falling shut, as he places open-mouthed kisses to the tops of her breasts, his fingers plucking and teasing at her sensitive flesh, her hands buried in his hair and holding him in place. He seems to make a decision when she cries out, his teeth having worked their way down over her breasts to tug and pull at one nipple, and suddenly he has spun them over, so she lies underneath him, head rested on the couch cushions, husband almost  _ leering _ down at her.   
  
It's a good leer: the kind that makes her all tingly and warm, that promises delicious little tortures to come. The kind that only gets better with time, as anticipation and imagination are augmented by memory, by knowledge of exactly what he can do with those long fingers of his, and his clever tongue.   
  
"You know what I just realised?" he says, as he leans down again and tugs at her earlobe with his teeth, his lips right up close to her ear, "We're home alone."   
  
She breathes out, a breathy little giggle, catching his drift, "We are, aren't we?"   
  
"Mmmhmmm," he hums against her neck, sends vibrations spiralling through her and right to her core. He moves himself down her body inch by inch, kissing and suckling at sensitive sports, making her shiver all down her spine, "So if I do this..." he suddenly slips a hand under her skirt, flicks his fingers against her, and smirks when she cries out, "You can make  _that_ delicious little sound, and no one's here to be traumatised by it."   
  
He's entirely too self-possessed, too in control for Belle's liking. He holds his hand under her skirt, against the soaked lace of her underwear, and she bucks against him, grinding against his hand in a desperate attempt to gain more friction where she needs it most.   
  
She grabs his tie - the red and black swirly one, one of her favourites - and hauls him up to her for a deep, wet kiss, distracting him as she slips her hand down between them and grasps his length through his trousers. He groans and stills, frozen against her as she rubs her palm against him, and she smirks against his lips, "We're wearing too many clothes."   
  
He stares down at her, and nods in vigorous agreement. She has to giggle, he seems so certain that she's right, and suddenly everything is a mad scramble to get her underwear and his trousers off, so she's left in her bra and skirt and he and his shirt and - absurdly - his tie. She doesn't object to that; it makes it easier for her to haul him up to her, so she can kiss him and look into his eyes.    
  
She does this, holds him by the knot so he has to stay there, so he can't cause more merry mischief. "Eager, are we?" He smirks down at her, but his hips have aligned with hers, and she can feel him pushing at her entrance, and he knows the answer.   
  
She loves him, and has done for years, and she's always eager for this.   
  
But she pouts, frowns, acts annoyed, "You know, abduction is seeming like a better and better idea. Rose doesn't really need an educa-" she's cut off mid-sentence when, in one smooth thrust, he has buried himself in her and she's grasping his shoulders, legs around his waist, staring up at him with wide eyes.   
  
"You were saying, love?"   
  
She shakes her head, hard, "N-nothing!” Her voice is an embarrassing little squeal, and she can see the laughter in his eyes. She swallows, “Nothing, nothing...” She wriggles her hips, trying to push him into movement, and that appears to be enough prompting for him because he pulls almost all the way out of her, slams back in again, and smirks when she cries out, louder this time.   
  
“That’s right,” he murmurs, fighting to keep his eyes on her as he sets a slow, deep rhythm, “Be as loud as you like.”   
  
Well, this is new. Rum very rarely tells her what he actually wants when they’re in bed - or on the sofa, as the case may be - and any new knowledge is definitely power. Apparently, he doesn’t mind her being vocal: wants it, in fact.   
  
So she doesn’t hold in her little scream when she twists her hips and he’s suddenly hitting deeper, a spot that makes her bones quiver and pleasure race through her. He quickens his pace, faster and faster, and she’s moaning with every thrust, unable to stop herself even if she wanted to.   
  
Rum reaches down between them, bracing himself over her on his other forearm, and starts to move his hand against her again, just the fingertips, just whispering over her centre so she has to shimmy up, buck into his hand to gain the friction she needs.   
  
“Yes, yes, yes,” she’s panting, breathing strings of nonsense in louder and louder gasps, “Please yes, please...” he clenches his hand into a fist, pushes a little harder against her so she’s grinding into his knuckles, and he’s buried inside her and his lips are on her neck, trailing hot, wet kisses up the side of her throat.    
  
“Please what, dearie?” he grunts into her ear, his breath cool on her sweat-slick skin, “Be specific...”   
  
“Please, just there, just right  _ there _ ...” she sobs, and he slams inside with a sharp snap of his hips, and she screams out his name, feels him smirk against her cheek. She clenches her legs harder around his in response, drawing him in as hard as she can, and nibbles on his jawbone just so, takes his long groan as proof that he  likes that.   
  
He can be fairly vocal, too, when he gets going.   
  
\---  
  
Astrid clutches Rose’s little hand, and beams down at the child as she babbles on.   
  
“And then, Alexandra let me play with her Barbie, and mama said No Barbies at home but she was so pretty and I really really want one!” a look of consternation crossed the child’s face, and she looked up with wide eyes, “Mama said no.”   
  
Astrid smiled, having heard Belle’s opinions on Barbies - dolls of any kind, really - and something about traditional gender roles “Your mama has her reasons. Maybe your papa would be a better idea?” she asks, and Rose’s face lights up. Even at four years old, this girl knows she has her adoptive father wrapped around her little finger.   
  
Astrid hadn’t been Mr Gold’s biggest fan, at first. But he was so good to Belle, and so much Rose’s doting father, that Astrid actually counted him as a friend, now.   
  
It helped, at least, when she screwed up and the convent was running low on funds to pay the rent. He was a little more lenient with them, since all Belle had to do was look at him and ask if he  wanted their daughter’s godmother to be homeless.   
  
They climb the steps to the pink house’s font door, and Astrid pulls her spare key out, opening the door a crack.   
  
Then pushes Rose behind her when she hears a long cry, and something that sounds like a grunt of pain.    
  
“Auntie Astrid?” Rose asks, frowning, “What’s up?”   
  
“Nothing, nothing,” Astrid replies, worry churning in her stomach, “Just give me a-”   
  
“Rum!” there is a long wail from the living room, “Yes! _YES_!”   
  
The response is a word that makes Astrid’s ears burn, shouted in a strong Scottish accent. Glancing around the corner, she can make out a pair of dark heads just over the back of the couch, and one foot - pale, with painted red tonails - braced over the top.   
  
_Ah_.   
  
Apparently, Mr and Mrs Gold were enjoying their child-free time.   
  
“What is it?” Rose is chewing her lip, “Where’s mama?”   
  
Astrid is caught between smirking and blushing in mortification, so she just closes the door, and kneels to look Rose in her sweet blue eyes, “Your mama and papa are a little busy right now, Rosie,” she grins, trying to convey that everything is alright, “We’re just early. How about we go for ice cream, and you tell me all about school? You haven’t finished the Barbie story yet!”   
  
Rose perks up at the words ‘ice cream’, and slips her soft little hand back into Astrid’s as they walk back down the stairs, and off into Storybrooke, leaving Rose’s parents to their fun.


End file.
